


Agents & Lies

by raedbard



Category: Entourage, The West Wing
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-07
Updated: 2009-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ari doesn't suck cock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agents & Lies

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle VIII. Prompt was 'protective'.
> 
> Set post-canon for TWW and c.S2 of Entourage.

"I don't fucking suck fucking cock," Ari says.

Sam -- spread across Ari's massive transparent desk with his ass on show to the L.A. traffic (considerable even this late at night) and his shirt providing approximately twenty square inches of cover from prying eyes as it hangs over Ari's chair -- watches Toby's face turn from dour fall to amused spring: a season change in his expression. Toby tugs at his shirt collar and the still-intact knot of his tie. His shirt tails are free and Sam knows the shape of the bulge in his pants pretty well now, but beyond that and the light sweat on his brow, there's nothing giving away his arousal, or exactly what the three of them have been doing the past half hour. Ari, by contrast, is flushed from bare chest to cheeks, tight trousers leaving absolutely nothing to Sam's imagination, and seemed pretty happy with the deal he was getting -- the imprints of his fingers are still burning on Sam's cock and his lips are buzzing with the violence of Ari's kisses.

But the sound of Toby's neat little cough reverberating around the office was all it took to throw Ari off his inevitable course towards Sam's ass. He was reaching for Sam's hips and the buttons of his own fly, and Toby was watching, fingers tapping on the top of the screen of Ari's iMac, like he's waiting for an appointment, like he's getting sick of waiting. All he did was shake his head, and now Ari's hands are flapping around in the air with the unfairness of it all. Sam smiles; it's strange how much they remind him of each other.

"Well," Toby says, burring the word over the clearing of his throat, "You don't fuck him either." The emphasis falls over the pronouns, Sam notes, not the verb. He's surprised at how much that still surprises him. Toby's hands have strayed to his hips, crooked there, steady, unflinching. Sam smiles, to himself, and wipes the sweat off his own forehead then passes the same hand over his cock. He doesn't want to flag for this; it's too much fun.

"You think that I'm going to fuck _you_, Toby? Because I think that infers a bit more obligation from our Jewish brotherhood than I'm fucking comfortable with."

Toby's eyes glisten. Sam tilts his head to get a better look for the smile that he's sure isn't on his lips yet. Toby rubs the knuckle of his thumb against his chin then throws the hand out and points at Ari's office door.

"You wanna go? No hard feelings, Ari, I understand."

"This is _my fucking_ office, _Toby_, and you're a B-list fucking hack writer who got unceremoniously canned on national television! So don't, for both our sakes, act like you have jurisdiction over my office door! I mean, a fucking _writer_? What am I thinking of here, when I have a line of girls queueing around the block to get on their knees for me, huh?"

"I don't know, Ari. Maybe you'd better go someplace nice and quiet and think about it some more? Leave Sam to me."

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you, you goddamn old goat."

Toby's voice is soft; the one he uses on women he wants to charm and senators he actually respects. Or at any rate used to. "No need to get personal, Ari."

"Personal? I think this is pretty damn personal. I'm about to have my cock up your boy's ass."

"No," Toby says, finally smiling, the smile Sam is sure could bring on thunderstorms and crash planes out of the sky, "You're really not."

"Oh, so only you get to fuck him? You got some kind of exclusivity clause in his contract, right?"

Toby stares at Ari while he undoes his tie, doesn't rise, smiles to himself, unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt. "You aren't gonna fuck Sam. I suggest you get used to the idea now, save us all some time."

"Fuck him, or fuck _with_ him, Toby? I mean, make yourself clear here. There's obviously some kind of subtext going on that, if I was the kind of guy who gave a fuck about these things, would be interesting to me."

"With or without any prepositions of your choice."

"Exclusive ass," Ari says, chuckling. He claps his palms together. Sam flinches away from the noise. "_That_ is what I call classy."

They signed on with Miller Gold because the one guy that Toby knows in the industry, who writes for _Sopranos_ and has a mouth that makes Ari's cursing habit look like a sweet little verbal tic, assured them that they were the best. _A Jew at the helm, right? So it's not like you're gonna_ lose _any money, right?_, he said, and Sam watched as Toby's hand made a quiet little fist under the table at the restaurant.

It has been a strange career move, and one that it took Sam half a year to convince Toby was worthwhile, let alone viable, but after he ran out on Josh he went to the only arms he was sure would open to him, however grudgingly, and he hadn't been wrong. In New York Toby was subsisting like a deposed king -- lonely, bored and still caught in the twist of the chaotic spiral that had got him there in the first place. Sam was surprised by how happy Toby looked to see him when he turned up at his door, bearing pie and a bag of his own favourite coffee (a good Kenyan blend from Starbucks) and the will to work up to a proposition he genuinely had no idea if Toby would ever accept.

The Pilgrim detectives. He'd been joking that Thanksgiving, but in the years that followed, every now and then, the idea had lit back up in his mind, a firefly of hope, beating its wings and making plans. Writing with Toby, partners again, creators again, getting hungry for that never-to-be-reached perfection again, ink on their fingers. And, that year, lonely too and aching and misplaced, his friendship with Josh sickening and his relationship to his job on life-support, the light had finally seemed blinding enough to take the risk. He hadn't written anything for four years at that point, or nothing except scribbles, fragments that had no context and only subjective quality. One day, locked up in the West Wing, and blankly browsing through old files on his old laptop he found the Inaugural, the first one, and felt breathless at its rawness, at how young they had both sounded then. Remembered how hard it had been to not fall in love with Toby, and how impossible to stop once it had been done.

They only fucked once a year -- on the night of the States of the Union. Three times. Sam missed the last appointment, and he still felt guilty about it, then. _We've got time to make up for_, he said, once they had kissed, Toby's mouth tender and uncertain against the turn of Sam's wrist, _come with me_.

But he did come.

They took a hotel room in L.A., went to the beach (Toby kept his suit on), ignored CNN (or tried to), didn't answer their cells (Toby threatened to throw Sam's Blackberry in the Pacific), argued and fucked, and laughed -- Toby's impossible atom-split laugh that always made Sam feel like he knew all the secrets of the universe. And wrote, every day, for hours. Together. And, at the end of it -- pages; it seemed like hundreds of pages to Sam. They needed a little polish but they were good, first time, like always. A script, this time. A pilot, or the short first draft of a movie. They weren't sure then.

Now: the show is about to start its second second, first in its time-slot, playing well with the 18-to-45s, and Sam had to stop Toby making an ungrateful aside in the middle of their Emmy acceptance speech.

Ari Gold is, Sam thinks, the last thing, the dog worrying at the back of Toby's head, the nearest thing he has in a world where the network execs hang on his every word and there is a beautiful (his word) man in his bed and his legacy is as good as already laid in stone, to a challenge. He misses fighting with Josh, pissing off President Bartlet, the stand-up battles in the Roosevelt Room; Ari fills a space.

They claim to loathe each other but Sam thinks he knows better. Whenever they go in to meet with Ari, afterwards, walking on the street (because even in L.A. Toby insists that they walk around to keep the blood flowing), Toby throws his hands around in the air, complaining about Ari's unreasonable demands, what a scheming little cocksucker he is, how badly Toby wants to kick his ass into the middle of next week. Sam will usually grin, and loop a discreet arm around Toby's waist, and try to resist the urge to swallow down from Toby's mouth all the sparks he is making around the edges of his thinly-disguised happiness.

They went out to a bar tonight, one that Ari picked. Once they got there they realised the set-up, between the half-naked boys walking around with trays of cocktails and the even more naked boys writhing up against the bars of their cages. Toby rolled his eyes and made for the door but Ari grabbed hold of his shoulders and turned him back around, steered him through the crowd to the bar where Lloyd was waiting with a gleeful expression and a trayful of drinks.

"No need to pretend, fellas!" Ari said, yelling in Toby's ear while simultaneously ignoring Sam. "Everyone here's cool with you being raging fags. Even _I_ don't care about that tonight! Look around, make yourself at home. You might even make a few friends, hey? Hey?" Ari punched Toby's shoulder. "You don't have enough fun, Ziegler."

"You don't have enough debilitating injuries," Toby had muttered, turning round to the bar, ordering a scotch and glaring at the barman when he tries to sell one of the bar's more exotic cocktails. Sam rested a hand on the small of his back, rubbed with his knuckles. Whispered, "Breath, try to resist the crush, kill, destroy impulse," into his ear, risked a kiss that was instantly brushed off.

"Just ignore him, Mister Ziegler," Lloyd said, handing the scotch from the sulky barman to Toby. "He is a _cranky_ little man today. He snapped at Vin Diesel this morning. I had the Emergency Services up on speed dial. It was very damaging to my anxiety levels, let me tell you."

Despite it running contrary to just about everything Sam has ever believed he knew about Toby, Toby seems to be very fond of Lloyd. So, he accepted the drink, thanked Lloyd, appeared to get some control over his breathing. They sat down, talked, drank some, until Lloyd excused himself back to his boyfriend's place and Ari hassled them out of the bar and into his Lexus, destination unknown.

At that time of night the agency was deserted, but for the light in Ari's office. One lamp and the glow of the iMac.

"You have something you want to say, Ari?" Toby asked, hands in his pockets, standing in the door of the office. "Something _important_?"

"What, you were getting too comfortable at queer central back there, Toby?"

Toby turned on his heel.

"Wait, wait, fucking wait. Okay. Don't blow your fucking stack. I have a proposition. An experiment I want to put to you, you infuriating goddamn beautiful man."

*

Toby thinks Ari has a thing for Sam, but Sam has had enough experience of the Ziegler brand of denial and projection to understand what is really going on here. Toby needs a reason, a certain texture to his grudge matches, and a buffer between himself and the flipside of his own ego.

Sam, his hand gently running up and down his cock, watches Toby and Ari glare at each other over the desk, over his own body. Toby's fingers have spread over the desk's edge, the first three on each hand making a tripod, both pinkies free in the air. Ari is pulling at his belt, friction fizzing on his own fingertips, his chin poking the air. Sam thinks Ari is the closest thing he has ever seen, even after five years in the West Wing, to a guy whose eyes actually glow red when he's pissed.

"Guys," Sam says, "Do you want to, maybe, stop marinating in your own testosterone?"

"Just because you were proudly castrated at the age of eleven, Sam, doesn't give you a free pass to the grown-up conversation," Ari says. "So pipe down, little man."

"You're going to want," Toby says, ripping off his tie and throwing it in Ari's face, "To not talk to him like that."

"Toby, will you just quit the ridiculous protective boyfriend routine and get over here?"

"Sam!"

"Toby?"

Ari scoffs, loudly. "Fuck, I hate it when you guys do that. Creeps me out _every time_ you big pair of fucking _queers_."

"Get your hands off his cock and then call me a queer, Ari."

"Oh, Sam doesn't count. Little balls-less over here? Please! He's pretty enough to be a chick someday, if you pay for the surgery."

Toby rubs two fingers into his left eye, smiles, the slow-spreading smile that precedes explosions. His shirt gets hung up over the back of the chair on his side of the desk and Sam grins and leans back for the show as Toby pulls his undershirt out of his pants and over his head. He pretty much loves this part.

"Fuck you, Ari Gold, you jumped-up dimestore hood," he says, and reaches over the desk, grabs hold of Ari's belt and pulls him over the desk, over Sam's thighs, against his own mouth. Sam watches them kiss -- all teeth, red lips and fury. Ari's hands storm over Toby's chest, pulling at hair, rubbing his nipples, pinching hard enough to make Sam wince. Toby pushes at Ari's chest, fists balled, his watch clasp making a series of scratches under Ari's collarbone. "You wanna fuck me?" Toby says, gentleness itself now, only his fingers holding Ari's jaw evidence of any imminent violence, "You fuck _me_. Leave him alone." He kisses Ari, slowly, then holds Ari's bottom lip between his teeth, then whispers, "You want to suck _my_ cock, Ari? Is that what you want?"

Ari is motionless, flushed, with his hands on Toby's shoulders like he still might push Toby away, if he wanted, if the time comes right again. He is staring into Toby's eyes, like he just got lost there.

"C'mon, Ari, I'm really curious."

"I took you somewhere you could have got your cock sucked, Ziegler. You blew it off."

"I think you'd find you have an unexplored talent, Ari. And we wouldn't dream of ratting you out. You're safe. Just an experiment. Just to see, right?"

"I fucking hate you, Ziegler."

Toby chuckles. "Yes, I know." His fingers slip down to his own belt. Sam squeezes his dick hard in his hand, clamps his fingers around the base. Toby unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants and steps closer to the desk, stands beside Sam, with one hand in Sam's hair and the other on his own hip. Ari snorts and rolls his eyes.

"You two are just adorable. And you should know it takes a lot for me to admit that."

"We're very impressed, Ari," Sam says. "Now, can we?"

"Oh, so now you're ganging up on me too? That's fucking sweet."

"I want to watch you blow my boyfriend."

"Please don't use that word, Sam."

"What the _verb_ or the fucking noun?" Ari says, to no-one in particular.

"After all the names he's called us tonight, that's what you choose to -- "

"Jesus, what does it take to shut you guys the fuck _up_!" Ari cracks his knuckles and punches the air, then the surface of the desk. Sam feels the reverberation through his ass. "Let's get this fucking show on the _road_!"

Tenderness in Ari Gold strikes Sam a little like snow on a Californian beach: he knows it is technically possible, but it never stops being surprising. Yet tender is what he is when he gets on his knees for Toby, or if not tender, _humble_; everything he could never admit to offered up to them now, with only the lights turned low. He lays his hands on Toby's thighs, strokes them down like he's testing the finish on a new Mercedes then reaches up to pull Toby's pants down over his knees, kisses the pale skin he uncovered. Sam begins stroking his cock with one hand and reaches out for Toby's free hand with the other. Toby spares him a glance, gentle again, almost puzzled, like he isn't sure why they're suffering this fool as gladly as they appear to be. Sam smiles at him. And Ari takes hold of Toby's dick with both hands and takes the head into his mouth.

Though he's given Toby plenty of blowjobs himself, Sam has never watched him get one, since, up until tonight, they have really never been that kind of couple. He isn't sure whether it's the vantage point (which gives him a perfect view of Toby's cock disappearing into Ari's mouth, of the sweat gathering on Ari's brow and trickling down his throat, of the heavy breaths expanding and contracting Toby's belly and chest that he reaches out to follow with the curve of his palm) or just the novelty of being a spectator to Toby's pleasure instead of the provider of it.

Or the clash of two rival storm systems going on here, the thunder and lightning subsumed into the place, the three inch stretch, where the two of them meet and cancel each other out. Ari has his eyes closed tightly, but not like he's trying to forget where he is and what he's doing, more like he's lost again, dreaming, wondering when to wake up. The hand that was on Toby's hip is now in Ari's hair, stroking it back off his forehead, like he does for Sam, because he wants to see his face.

Ari lets his mouth open, lets Toby's cock slip out between his lips and rub up against his cheek and nuzzle into his jaw. There is a cue in the hitch in Toby's breath and Sam lies back and pulls on his hand, pulls him down. The last thing Sam sees before he closes his eyes against Toby's dark, expansive kisses and gives in to the throb in his dick and the pressure of Toby's hand curling around it, is Ari pulling out his own cock and frantically jerking himself off as Toby's cum splashes across his face.

*

"I suppose you deserve another Emmy in return for that favour," Toby says, punching Ari in the arm much harder than he really needs to, Sam thinks.

"I think I deserve an Emmy, a fucking Oscar and your ex-wife's phone number for that favour, Toby."

"Lloyd can tell, you know," Sam says, straightening his tie in the screen of the iMac. "I mean, he will be able to. I guess you're okay with that?"

"Lloyd can clean the cum off the carpet for all I could give a shit, Sam."

"Lloyd's a professional," Toby says. "He can keep quiet."

"You looking for another experimental blowjob there, Mister Ziegler?"

Toby gives Ari a dark look, but one with a hint of a smile under the clouds.

"You _like_ Lloyd, don'tcha? C'mon, Toby, you can tell me."

"You can keep Lloyd, Ari. Maybe get a bit of practice in, huh?"

"Fuck you, Ziegler, you fucking hack."

Sam takes Toby's hand as they get to the door. "Just as far as the elevator, Toby, I promise," he says, "But just stop before you start throwing down again, okay?"

"Nah, we're all good here," Ari says. "Isn't that right, Toby?"

"Get your practice in, Ari. We'll see you soon."

Ari stands in the doorway of his own office, with his tie loose around his neck and a high flush still over his cheeks. His eyes are bright, lit up like the L.A. horizon Sam can see out the window behind him. Ari raises both hands, shakes his fists in the air.

"I have fucked fucking writers! The world is coming to an end!"

"Goodnight, Ari!" Toby calls out, over his shoulder, tugging Sam towards the elevator.

"Good fucking night, you fucking beautiful hack!"


End file.
